


Incidences

by FangedAngel



Category: Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that he should mind. But he can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incidences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iBear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iBear/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, recipient! I hope you'll like this gift at least a little!! It was brilliant writing the boys for you :)

He doesn’t mind. He knows he should, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t mind when his phone rings every other week at 4AM and it’s always Tom’s voice greeting him, warm with the laughter that bubbles out of him when Joe makes several attempts at proper insults considering he’s still half-asleep.

He doesn’t mind the random e-mails and the frequent updates on each and every single dog (Tom calls it Dogbook and Joe rolls his eyes), he doesn’t mind the text messages or the fact that Tom’s text-speak is somehow even worse than his net-speak and it hurts Joe’s eyes.

He doesn’t mind the fact that his phone will start ringing on set, when he’s in the middle of filming, because he forgot to turn it off and Tom never gives up until he picks up. He doesn’t mind how he has to stare at his feet to avoid all the glares thrown his way as he rushed to silence the phone, not before allowing a shadow of a smile to curl his lips at the sight of Tom’s name.

He doesn’t mind that when he brings someone home for the first time after the break-up with his girlfriend, Tom calls just as Joe’s fixing drinks, rambling on about this new script he’s reading and about the play he’s seen and about his new pair of shoes and about his new haircut.

He doesn’t mind when he only realizes half an hour later that his date has disappeared, and he laughs at himself when he starts undressing, taking his suit off with Tom’s voice on speaker, filling the room

He doesn’t mind when Tom calls him from hidden numbers only to use his artillery of voice impersonations until Joe’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe. He doesn’t mind when it’s 4:30AM and Tom’s going about his business, taking sips of coffee or tea –he alternates between the two- with Joe just listening to him, chasing lingering dreams in his mind, breathing, being. Tom only calls when he’s completely sure they both have free time. If that tends to be when Joe’s sleep is most profound, he can’t mind, not when it means having the sound of Tom’s voice to himself, an illusion of proximity that wipes out the ocean between them.

He doesn’t mind when Tom gets a hitRECord account under a ridiculous alias, posting silly videos he’s made along with some of his friends. He doesn’t mind how soon Tom’s videos become brilliant, clips of fall turning into winter, clips of melancholy and longing, and Tom’s voice, Tom’s voice shaping words in carefully cultivated French. Joe has all of them on his iPod. It’s what he listens to on the nights of the week when Tom doesn’t call. He doesn’t mind that Tom made all of them for Joe, to get a reaction out of Joe. He thinks of them as gifts of an insanely creative man who’s too far under his skin.

When Joe tells Tom that he needs him, he doesn’t mind when Tom calls him back minutes later to confirm his flight details. He doesn’t even mind that Tom is probably the most complicated human being on the planet, made of infinite layers and endless mazes. He doesn’t mind not knowing all of Tom because Tom knows all of him, and they understand each other. They understand each other more completely than Joe could even contemplate, before. He doesn’t mind that there are no questions. He doesn’t mind that there’s no need for explanations, for promises. It’s all there, between them, and they don’t have to say anything to make themselves heard to each other.

He doesn’t mind not being able to sleep while Tom is on the plane, doesn’t mind driving to the airport pale and already buzzed from three hot coffees. He doesn’t mind when Tom wraps his arms around him the moment they’re in touching distance, his lips discreetly brushing Joe’s ear, the hint of a kiss. He doesn’t mind that Tom holds him close until he’s simply forced to let go. He doesn’t mind the goofy grin that lights up his whole face at the sight of Tom’s smile.

*

He makes lunch while Tom sleeps his jetlag off in Joe’s bed, making a mess of tangled sheets because Tom can’t stop moving, ever. He looks at Tom through the open door of the bedroom from time to time, looks at the sight of Tom with his head buried under Joe’s pillow, just to make sure that Tom really is there, in his bed, in New York City.

He remembers how he hadn’t minded how well Tom had slipped into Eames’ skin, taunting Joe at all times, even when Joe wasn’t Arthur, even when Joe was sleep-deprived and in urgent need of coffee or breakfast or both. Tom would steal his meal and drink most of his coffee, ruffling Joe’s ‘it-took-the-hairstylists-two-hours-to-perfectly-apply-gel-to-it’ until the whole cast burst into giggles and Christopher found himself forced to start throwing whatever item was closest at Tom.

He hadn’t minded the random play-fights that Tom would challenge him to during breaks, Tom wearing Eames’ clothes, the ones that horrified Arthur’s disciplined sense of style. He hadn’t minded when Tom’s fist collided with his shoulder a little too hard and he had to grab at it, wincing, pretending he was in more pain than was the case only to get back at Tom with a right hook the moment Tom came too close. He hadn’t minded when Tom had laughed, shaking Joe’s hand in defeat and bowing out to the applause of everyone around.

He hadn’t minded when Tom had started a battle with fresh paint in the warehouse, a battle everyone ended up joining in, a battle that nearly gave Chris a heart attack at the sight of them and their paint-spattered once-flawless clothes. Tom had taken the blame with a playful grin that no one could actually resist and Joe had imagined dragging his fingers along the multicolored stains along Tom’s neck.

He hadn’t minded when Tom had pulled him into an abandoned corner, his fingers tight around Arthur’s tie and around Joe’s wrist, gripping him, his lips on Joe’s, his tongue slipping between them, Joe pressing himself to him, fisting Eames’ shirt in his hands, Tom biting at the skin of his neck, making Joe move against him, not even worried about wrinkles or stains or wardrobe coming after them with pitchforks.

He hadn’t minded how they’d shared hotel rooms after that, until filming was wrapped and Tom said goodbye-for-now to Joe by fucking him into the mattress most of the night. Joe hadn’t minded not being able to walk straight for days afterwards without being reminded of Tom’s body inside him.

He hasn’t even minded missing him, hasn’t even minded the distance, the fact that this isn’t a relationship, not really, that this is just something they’re making up as they go. He doesn’t mind that Tom has a life he barely knows anything about back in England while New York will always be his home.

When Tom wakes up, stretching lazily, almost-naked, Joe smiles at him, turns his back to pour coffee for both of them. Tom trails his lips down the back of Joe’s neck and it’s only seconds later that Joe realizes Tom’s fingers are sticky, coated with the honey that Joe’s left unattended on the counter. He shivers when Tom’s hand cups his cheek, and he turns to face Tom, Tom and his grin.

Lunch gets cold by the time they sit down to eat and Tom laughs at the honey in Joe’s hair. And Joe can’t mind. He can’t mind at all.


End file.
